


how to knight

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, im sorry, just a couple of guys being dudes, obliviousess, theyre just running the kingdom baby, this is basically a 'rules about merlin' fic, yeah one of those
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: it turns out there are more than a few weirdly specific instructions about being a knight in camelot.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 227





	1. the rules

**Author's Note:**

> honestly? this is a bit of a mess tbh but anyways we dont have to talk about that.  
> this fic was mainly inspired by something i read like ages ago where the knights had special rules about merlin due to arthur being a jealous hoe @ whoever wrote that: thank u it was amazing !!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> this is kind of my take on that pfft 
> 
> anywayS!!!!!!!! here we gooooooooooooooo

It’s Marcel’s first proper day as a knight of Camelot.

The sun is high, the sky a lovely blue, and the morning dew is still wet on the grass, and Marcel is about to begin his first-ever training session.

He’s been incredibly excited about it for weeks, but when he shows up in the training grounds near the castle, he’s met with only two new knights and also Sir Gwaine. 

It’s not that Sir Gwaine being here is bad, exactly, but the thing is, Marcel was kind of expecting the King to be taking the training session; Marcel’s brother got to be trained by him, and Sir Gwaine isn’t the King. In fact, he’s nowhere near being the King at all. Marcel respects the man, of course he does, it’s just that Sir Gwaine has...a reputation, that’s how Marcel would phrase it. He is also currently dazzlingly shitfaced, which is vaguely inconvenient, especially since Marcel does want to be knighted today, and he’s not sure it counts if the man knighting you is drunk.

So anyway, Marcel is here and Sir Gwaine is sweet-talking the sword rack, and everything is mildly shitty. 

His shock and slight dismay are shared by the other two soon-to-be-knights apparently. 

“I didn’t think the tavern was even open this early,” one says. He’s tall, broad, ash-blond and has the thickest eyebrows Marcel has ever seen in his seventeen years of life.

“He probably keeps drinks in his chambers, stupid,” replies the red-haired, lanky boy who Marcel thinks he’s seen around somewhere in town. The apple stall, maybe. The blond guy punches him on the arm, and they act out some kind of weird mock-fight and then stop, subdued when Sir Gwaine starts talking again.

(It turns out he’s just attempting to hit on some imaginary lord or lady, not actually instructing anyone - “how sharp your blade is,” he’s drawling - Marcel snorts. )

Marcel briefly wonders what Sir Gwaine is actually doing here on time if he isn’t actually training them, or even noticing that actual people are around other than the lovely spear he’s flirting with, but his train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he notices  _ him  _ approaching.

It’s King Arthur. 

(And his manservant.)

The other two knights and Marcel straighten immediately and the blond boy (Marcel did hear his name earlier, he supposes the redhead must have said it - it could be Andrew or Anthony) puffs out his chest and grips his sword hilt so tightly his leather gloves make a stretching sound. Marcel himself picks a few flecks of mud off his chainmail self-consciously before staring, pop-eyed, at the King shamelessly. He’s wearing the standard uniform of the knights of Camelot, the chain and the shoulder armour and the red padding underneath, but it looks much better on him than it does on Marcel. He’s not close enough that Marcel can see his freckles or anything, but the gold of his hair and flawless complexion is as clear enough that Marcel feels he should bow or something. 

Marcel’s a little terrified of the King. How the man stays sane with the command of a whole kingdom, its armies and people and laws at his fingertips will always be a mystery to him; Marcel would probably have a panic attack if somebody told him that  _ he  _ is King now and that his word is the law. Plus Arthur could probably behead him in five seconds flat using his non-dominant hand, so that counts for something.

He’s more frightened still when His Royal Highness is standing right in front of them, frowning like training new knights is a nuisance and like he’d really rather not be here.

“Ah!” Sir Gwaine says loudly, breaking the awed silence on the boys’ part, weary on Arthur’s. He swaggers over to them, claps the King on the shoulder and babbles something about “betting my horse” and “I have to pay for the pints” and “Thank you, sire, I really couldn’t be assed training today”. And then he beams drunkenly at Arthur, and then at the King’s manservant, and promptly legs it towards the tavern.

Marcel and the others blink, alarmed, and then Arthur sighs and his manservant sighs too and says, “What more could you expect from him,” in a tone that suggests Gwaine getting pissed before training is a regular occurrence.

Marcel isn’t quite sure how Sir Gwaine hasn’t been sacked or un-knighted or whatever it is they do to knights who don’t do their duties well or get drunk at ten o’clock in the morning. Maybe it’s because Sir Gwaine is one of the special, inner-circle men, Marcel thinks, staring after him. (Gwaine trips over a rock on the road or something, and stumbles into a cart full of hay.) Either way, it’s hard to believe.

“Apologies for Gwaine,” the King says, and Marcel’s gaze snaps back to him. “He’s always like that. Not sure why I asked him to cover this morning’s session…” he trails off, and then seems to notice something - a spot of food or dirt perhaps - on his manservant’s cheek when he glances over at the other man, as if for the next thing to say. (In retrospect, this seems a tad odd; Marcel doesn’t know much about servants, but he’s fairly certain they’re just supposed to simply  _ be there,  _ and also stand behind the King or Queen or whoever, not beside them, shoulders practically touching; but if Marcel learned anything from King Uther’s reign, it was to never question the King’s actions unless you want a public flogging, so he doesn’t think much of it.)

Arthur squints at his servant’s cheek for a second and then takes the man’s wrist, without force, and leans over, makes to brush off the mystery imperfection, and Marcel and the other boys watch as the King and his manservant (although Marcel’s rather doubting the man is simply a servant because he’s  _ completely  _ certain Kings don’t groom their servants or at least attempt to) have a swatting competition, or something close to it.

“My chainmail is  _ fine,  _ Merlin,” the King says, slapping the man’s hands away from his collar, “Just let me...you’ve got an eyelash-”

“It’s  _ crooked,”  _ his manservant - Merlin - insists, scowling, ducking around Arthur’s hand and then pausing and rubbing his face at the mention of stray eyelashes. Neither of them seem to realise that Marcel and the others are standing  _ right here,  _ and Marcel doesn’t know about Andrew-or-Anthony or Redhead, but he wants to be able to be an actual functioning knight by the knighting ceremony later. But apparently they are all going to have to make time for this domestic bickering, (or whatever others would wish to call it, thinks Marcel) because it doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.

“They always do this,” Red says, quietly enough not to distract King Arthur from his fond smiling and brushing the eyelash off Merlin’s jaw with his thumb tenderly. “I used to be one of Uther’s manservants, you know before he corked it, and when I was in hearing distance of those two in the stands at tournaments and stuff, let me tell you it drives you insane after a few hours.”

Marcel snorts, because that’s completely believable, and Anthony giggles.

(The King gazes into Merlin’s eyes for a second too long, and the pair of them go scarlet and step away from each other. Red sighs.)

It’s now that the King belatedly realises that he has knights to teach proper etiquette and pristine fighting stance. He turns to them, red-faced, and manages, “Good morning, Marcel, Robin, Alexander,” in rather uncharacteristic, halting tones, and then with appalling lack of subtlety turns a little to watch Merlin’s retreating back almost  _ wistfully  _ as the man is fetching shields from the rack of weapons.

“It’s Anthony, sire,” Anthony supplies politely.

“What?” says Arthur distractedly. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Anthony.”

  
  


Following this, Marcel’s first-ever training goes remarkably well, even though the King isn’t really making much of an effort.

(Marcel thinks it might be his manservant; “or a lady,” Anthony adds. Either way, Arthur keeps getting their names wrong, even though he’s known for his kindness towards his subjects, and he very nearly impales Robin when he’s staring across at Merlin with an embarrassingly lovesick expression painted across his face.)

They still finish training, though, and the knighting ceremony is lovely and the hall was packed full of courtiers. (Marcel supposes there must be guests staying in the castle because he’s pretty sure there usually aren’t  _ that many  _ people.)

And now it’s late evening, and the sky is inky black, stars twinkling; and Marcel is a knight of Camelot.

He can’t really believe it himself, even though he’s wearing his chainmail and padding and cloak and swordbelt and he’s even combed his hair, and he’s got an actual  _ title  _ now, because he heard King Arthur say it: “Sir Marcel, Knight of Camelot.” He kind of wants to run home and write a letter to everybody he’s ever met informing them that they may all address him as Sir Marcel and Sir Marcel only, but he doesn’t, because Marcel also has a room in the castle now that he gets to share with some other knights, and he hasn’t brought up his ink and parchment and also all his other things yet. 

  
  


After the ceremony, Arthur’s round table knights volunteer to show the new boys to their room. Marcel isn’t really sure why all three insisted on coming - Sirs Gwaine, Leon and Percival - but he isn’t complaining, why on Earth would he do that, because they’re  _ knights of the round table _ . (Anthony’s having a mild heart attack beside Marcel. Robin is laughing at him.)

“You might be wondering why the three of us are showing you to your room instead of just one,” Sir Leon says, after a little while of trying and failing to break up a petty argument that Gwaine and Percival are having about crossbows. 

Gwaine shuts up immediately upon hearing this and continues, grinning, “Well, the boys and I have this tradition-”

“I wouldn’t call it a  _ tradition,”  _ says Percival.

Gwaine scowls at him, opens his mouth to say  _ shut up,  _ probably, and then Leon says, “Percy’s right. It’s more like...teaching you little ones the ropes!”

Robin bristles a bit about being described as a “little one”. Anthony cocks his head in interest. Marcel wisely stays silent.

“Anyway,” Gwaine continues. “You should know the Knight’s code, but if you don’t that’s fine obviously, I don’t know it either, I think it’s on Arthur’s wall actually, I’ve seen it, but that was the time I was borrowing his wine, so I had to leave pretty fast, the  _ point is,  _ we have a set of “unnoficial rules”, you might call them.” He holds out his hand, and Percival drops a roll of parchment into his palm. 

“They’re like a companion to the code,” Leon says proudly as Gwaine unfolds it. “You know, for new knights. We’ve had a few incidents, you know, and we thought it would be best to avoid those situations in the future.”

They exchange grimaces. Marcel doesn’t want to know, but he assumes it’s probably among the big ‘no’s’ on the list. Gwaine hands the list to Robin, and he, Marcel and Anthony peer at it curiously.

Gwaine begins to read the rules out loud. Most of them seem to be something to do with the King’s manservant. 

“Rule one,” announces Gwaine. “Don’t fancy Merlin.”

Percival chuckles. “Or, more convenient for us, don’t try and actively woo Arthur either. Merlin gets really pissy about it. And when he’s in a bad mood, he’s in a  _ bad mood.” _

“Why does this rule exist, you may be thinking? Why couldn’t you have a crush on a lowly manservant? The thing is-” Gwaine carries on, but is interrupted by Robin’s, “Oh, that’s because His Royal Highness is in love with him, isn’t it?”

“Gosh,” says Leon. “They’re getting less subtle by the day. I mean, is it really that obvious?”

“Yes,” says Marcel, and the other two echo him, bemused.

“Well, you’re quite right,” says Gwaine, a little sadly. “One time my man Samuel went and gifted Merlin some bluebells...a brave move, really, and also very stupid, because it was Valentine’s day. Anyway, Merlin got the flowers and Arthur was like, where did you get those, because he’d actually left Merlin some bluebells too, they’re his favourite flower apparently, and so, Merlin says, “oh your knight Samuel gave them to me, what, you jealous?” and obviously Arthur was a tad put out. By that I mean to say he cried to me about it almost the entire night. God, they’re both awful. Point being; spare me Arthur being a lovesick idiot, or I  _ will  _ have to put you in the stocks.”

Marcel files that information away into his brain for later use and when they hear footsteps, Leon gestures for Robin to put the list in his pocket to keep it out of sight. “Keep it until you’ve memorized the rest,” Percival tells them after the servant has turned the corner. “Be discreet. Arthur would not want to see the list. Seriously. Don’t put it anywhere near either of them, actually.”   
  


And with that last cryptic warning, the three of them steer the boys to their shared chambers and then set off in the general direction of the lower town, the tavern to be precise, most likely to get wasted.


	2. prince everard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> merlin has an admirer, arthur hates him, and robin is enjoying the entertainment immensely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg can u believe i actually updated this fic wtf
> 
> its been like 3 months im so ashamed. 
> 
> this is turning into merthur being a side thing and i am writing way too much of marcel and the boyes help
> 
> (this one goes out to that one person who said marcel is baby, yes he is, you are right)
> 
> anyways here it is mwah happy reading excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes babes i write on my phone hueheue

Marcel wakes up in a kind-of lumpy but warm bed, well rested and feeling like he’s just won a bag of gold. Which he has, pretty much, he thinks, opening his eyes and grinning at the ceiling. It’s his first day on the job!

_ Sir Marcel.  _ He’ll get used to it, maybe.

He’s feeling over the moon and is just about to start laughing out of giddiness when he hears a pterodactyl screech of Robin not wanting to get out of bed. 

“Get off me, you pillock,” he hears Robin yowling, and sits up, alarmed, to see Anthony dragging Robin out of his mountainous pile of blankets by his right ankle. 

“What are you doing to him?” Marcel asks, a little stupefied. Anthony glances over at him. 

“Oh good,” he says cheerfully, blond hair sticking up like a dandelion. “You’re awake. It’s six-thirty, which means breakfast! Training! Training! Break! And even more training.” He grins so widely Marcel’s worried for his jaw. “I’m very excited.”

Marcel blinks a few times out of shock and mild horror, because okay, are they really going to be training  _ all day?  _

(Anthony yanks Robin’s ankle, and they both go toppling onto the stone floor due to the sheets getting tangled around Robin’s legs.)

This is when they all find out they have another roommate. He stands in front of them, arms crossed, staring down at Robin and Anthony on the floor distastefully.

“ _ What  _ are you two doing?” he asks, and he’s got a posh accent that comes from making sure you have a posh accent on purpose and drinking a lot of hot water with leaves in it.

“Who’re you,” Robin says, scrunching his nose up and matching the other boy’s annoyance.

“I’m Prince Everard of Werdan,” he says, tossing his black hair, glaring down at Robin.

“Don’t you have eighteen older brothers?” Anthony says. “Is that why you’re here, ‘cause you’ll never ever be King?”

Prince Everard growls like an offended puppy, and then retreats away to bitterly put on his knightly vests.

(He seems very mean, so Marcel can’t say he isn’t glad when Prince Everard manages to break the first rule on the special parchment.)

  
  


The first day looks a little like this: Marcel, Robin, Anthony and ‘prince’ Everard get into their uniforms and meet with the King and Merlin (apparently; Marcel’s not sure why Merlin is here, but he’s currently saddling the horses and then jumping onto his like it’s a routine, so Marcel figures that’s just a normal thing.) Then they’ll scour the forest and surrounding villages once, go back for supper, and then ride again. 

It’s actually quite fun, riding through the trees on a horse. Marcel usually hates horses, but this one has a glossy brown coat and a white stripe on its nose, unlike his father’s old, moody goat who Marcel was taught to ride on. Apparently her name is Daisy, and Marcel has decided he loves her very much.

So it’s fun, and the wind on Marcel’s face is blowing his hair back and getting it in his eyes (it’s lucky that Marcel’s hair is blond, and short enough it doesn’t completely block his vision), but that’s okay because the air tastes sweet and Robin’s telling them a beguiling tale of tale of a princess he met once, and it’s fun, fun until Everard stops complaining about his horse and how sore is arse his and how galloping is “messing up his luscious hair” and starts attempting to hit on Merlin.

He’s subtle at first.

(It doesn’t last, because Merlin isn’t really realizing, and neither is anybody else.)

But then Everard compliments Merlin’s cheekbones and then asks if he’s free on Saturday afternoon, and Robin steers is horse closer to Marcel’s and Anthony’s horses and takes the list out of his pocket. 

“He just broke a rule!” Robin whispers, leaning over and using his nose to point to “don’t fancy Merlin” written in Sir Leon’s neat printing. Marcel tries not to laugh, and fails, because Everard is boring and unpleasant and if he gets a punishment for making eyes at the King’s manservant, that would be hilarious and convenient. Anthony says, “Hey, look,” and points at King Arthur, and Marcel laughs even more. His Royal Highness was looking contented and serene earlier, but now he is glaring at Everard as if the prince has insulted his dignity. 

“So,” Everard is saying, smiling attractively, because apparently arseholes have to be attractive, “Are you working on Saturday? I’ve heard they’re setting up a theatre downtown-”

“You’ve got patrols with Gwaine on Saturday,” Arthur interrupts, and if looks could kill, Everard would be six feet under. “All day,” he adds icily, like Everard would actually dare question him. Marcel thinks that Everard is a pretentious brat, but  _ nobody,  _ not even the most arse of holes would dare to question the King’s orders. 

“No I don’t- I- we- I have my schedule right here-” Everard protests, reaching over to get out his schedule from his satchel, but shuts up rather quickly. Merlin shoots Arthur a grateful look that says very clearly  _ “this boy is annoying and also like fifteen and I would literally rather die than go out with him thank you so much”  _ but Everard misses it, because he’s busy being a moron and actually  _ frowning  _ at Arthur. (The audacity, thinks Marcel, a little outraged.)

“I forgot to add that patrol,” declares Arthur, very obviously seething. “And Merlin is always working.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. 

“But!” Everard stammers. “I!”

“Am on patrol,” Arthur says coldly, and then tells Everard to clean up the horses when they get to Ealdor.

Everard drops back with the others and the King and Merlin ride ahead, and says, “Well, I don’t know what  _ his  _ problem is,” in a snobbish manner that makes Marcel want to throw up on him. 

“Don’t expect us to sympathize,” Anthony says primly. “Talking back to the King is incredibly rude.” (Marcel thinks that if Anthony went for the threatening option his warning would be more effective, because Anthony’s arms are literally the size of tree trunks. Apparently he favours being nice over being effective, however.)

“He’s not my King,” says Everard, sticking his nose in the air. “I’m doing to date his manservant, and I don’t care what he thinks about it.”

Marcel snorts, regards Merlin and Arthur up ahead; they’re bickering about something, the way Marcel’s parents argue over how much dripping is healthy on bread. They get to a tree near the village, and Merlin hops off his horse, ties it up, and then helps Arthur of his, even though Marcel can hear him protesting; he watches, amused, as Merlin straightens Arthur’s armour and Arthur gently untangles twigs from Merlin’s hair in the caring manner of someone who’s been doing it for a long time and doesn’t mind.

Marcel turns to Everard. “Good luck with that,” he says.

  
  
  


Everard doesn’t have good luck with that.

“He told me he couldn’t have a picnic because he was working,” Everard is telling them, three days later, as Robin and Anthony are solving a puzzle on the floor of their room and Marcel is reading and attempting to block out Everard’s droning, “and so I went to the tavern afterward, obviously, a fine gentleman like me isn’t used to being rejected, I mean, just  _ look  _ at all this-” he pauses then, and gestures to his stupidly handsome face, toned arms, creamy skin, and Marcel didn’t know that legs could be arousing, but yes, Everard’s managed it - “And guess who I saw?”

“I don’t care,” Robin tells him.

“It was Merlin!” Everard says dramatically, face haunted. “He was playing that stupid peasant coin game with your horrible King!”

Anthony twitches at this, but doesn’t punch him. Marcel thinks that he should have.

“Maybe,” says Robin, “and hear me out, he doesn’t like you ‘cause you’re boring and mean.”

“I am not boring,” Everard says waspishly. “And at least I am  _ good  _ at being mean. Also, my sheer attractiveness should cancel both of those things out.”

“You’re impossible,” Robin declares. “I have decided that I hate you and I don’t want to be associated with you.”

  
  
  


Robin’s statement doesn’t really work out either. This is because Everard decides to stick to them like glue because nobody else tolerates his horribleness; this is dreadful for a number of reasons, the main one being him trying to get in Merlin’s pants all hours of the day. It’s very embarrassing, because people are associating him with Marcel. 

“You should get him to stop,” one of the maids says to him one day, when Everard has decided to be extra mortifying and is serenading Merlin with the aid of some wilted flowers and also his blindingly white smile. (Merlin is not enjoying it, and looks like he wants to run for the hills.)

“Er, I don’t know him,” Marcel tells her weakly. She shrugs and goes back to dusting the portraits. Marcel wants to die, a little.

“I’ll see you later, sweet lover!” Everard yells at Merlin’s retreating back. Apparently the man had managed to escape, and Marcel is very happy for him.

Everard comes flouncing towards him, and Marcel wants to run away but doesn’t think he’ll be able to get away with it without it looking like he’s running away, so he stays put and tells himself the King will hopefully put Everard in the stocks forever and he won’t have to deal with this awfulness soon. “Um,” he says, when Everard is standing next to him. “How...how’d it go?”

“Fantastic,” Everard says dreamily. “I can hear the wedding bells already.”

Marcel is pretty sure in this current day and age, two men getting married would not be socially acceptable, and also Merlin clearly does not want to get married to Everard, but also telling Everard this would not make any difference because Everard is an idiot, so he keeps his mouth shut. “That’s, um, great,” he says instead, a little doubtfully. “Let’s go to training.”

  
  
  


The day Everard goes on a date with Merlin is a shocking one.

The fact that it actually happens is appalling. Robin says that he feels awfully guilty that they hadn’t stopped Everard sooner, because now Merlin is, as Anthony puts it, “pity-dating” Everard. 

It’s supposed to be a picnic at noon on Saturday, and the King doesn’t know about it, which is probably why Everard is getting away with this. 

“We should spy on them,” Robin says to Marcel and Anthony later, when they’re sitting on Anthony’s bed listening to him read out his horrible poetry. 

“Eyes as blue as blueberries, my sw- wait, what?” Anthony demands. “Spy?”

Robin rolls his eyes at him. “Yes, obviously. Spy. Spying is what we do.”

“We’ve never spied,” Marcel remarks. “Spying is immoral and disrespectful.”

Robin lifts up his leg and shoves his foot in Marcel’s face. “It’s not bad if you’re spying on dumb Everard on his fiasco date.”

This is actually not true, because most of the the garbage that comes out of Robin’s mouth isn’t, however it  _ does  _ sound like fun and there are plenty of other knights to cover their duties for an hour or two. 

“Mmm, okay,” Marcel says, and Anthony makes an outraged noise and says something about  _ do you two have any respect,  _ but then Marcel and Robin start getting ready to go and ruin the romantic picnic and Anthony joins them because he doesn’t want to be left out.

  
  
  


Everard didn’t tell them where exactly the date of sorts was taking place, but they figure it out soon enough. There’s this little grassy clearing in a part of the woods where the trees are less thick and the flowers bloom prettier; apparently it’s somewhat of a hotspot for couples to go and do whatever couples do. Robin’s maid friend Lacy had told him about it when she’d heard what their plan was. (“Make sure to absolutely ruin it,” she had said.)

Marcel, being dubbed “the responsible-looking one”, had been sent to go and ask King Arthur for permission to leave without obviously telling him about the date. To be honest, Marcel hadn’t even really even asked, he’d just kind of told him that he had to send home for the weekly milk run (this was a total lie of course, but Arthur seemed very out of it and a little glum and just told Marcel that that was alright, of course he could go, and then went back to looking like a lovesick, kicked puppy.)

And then they were off, and Marcel was stoked to be riding Daisy again. She was very well-behaved, and when they got near the clearing and were tying up the horses, he gave her Anthony and Robin’s lunch apples as a reward. 

“I can see them,” Anthony mutters now, creeping through the grass, almost bent fully over due to being massively tall; Marcel peers out from behind a tree. It’s a horrible scene to look upon. Marcel can almost taste the awkwardness. There’s a blanket set out, and cakes and pies and fruit and freshly baked bread, cheeses and sauteed potatoes and ham spilling out of a huge basket; roses tied in a bunch lying discarded next to Merlin, who is sitting on the mat stiffly and wearing the expression of somebody who’s just drank spoiled milk. (Marcel thinks that is very appropriate because going on a date of all things with Everard would be very similar.)

“So, how is being the King’s manservant treating you?” Everard is saying, in a honey-coated voice that makes Marcel throw up all his organs. You can practically  _ see  _ the love hearts popping out of his eyes. It’s actually violating.

“Er,” says Merlin, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s alright.”

Everard doesn’t get the message, and also doesn’t shut up. “It must be such a privilege to serve him!” he continues, putting one of his unnaturally desirable hands on Merlin’s arm. “Do you get closer to him on the job? Like, emotionally?”

“Well, um, I’ve been his servant for eight years,” says Merlin, and his expression morphs from  _ please don’t touch me  _ to unmistakeable fondness, “so I suppose you could say that, yeah. Between you and me, though, he’s a bit of a prat in the mornings. Also, his socks smell terrible. But I’m really proud of him, you know? He’s a really great King, and, like, he was an obnoxious moron when I first met him, and, well, he still kind of is, but he’s fair and just and caring and I don’t think I’d swap him out for anyone, ever.” (Merlin is smiling, and Everard looks like he’s thinking something like “maybe I should not have asked him about Arthur”, and he would be right.)

“Also, he lets me borrow his clothes,” Merlin continues, patting his jacket. “This is his-” (It’s dark blue, with bronze buttons, and it fits him almost perfectly. Everard looks very irritated, and very annoyed.) “- and he isn’t even a brat about it anymore. He used to be like, oh my god, Merlin, take that off, it’s mine, servants can’t wear their King’s clothes, that’s inappropriate, but at ceremonies and meetings and stuff, he even insists on it. Apparently this one matches my eyes.”

(Arthur was right; it does match his eyes.) 

“Of course,” Everard says sourly. “I suppose he would do the same for any servant?”

“Any servant at all,” Merlin says. “That’s just the way he is.”

(Merlin says this like he’s said it a lot, so many times he believes it.)

Everard clears his throat, removes his hand from Merlin’s arm, and starts packing up the food with the passive-aggressive precision of someone having a massive tantrum, but quietly. Merlin doesn’t really seem to notice, or care; he helps Everard put all the uneaten food back in the basket, and then they get on their horses and leave. Marcel, Robin and Anthony lie flat in the daffodils, carefully out of sight as Merlin and Everard make their way back to Camelot.

“Oh, my God,” Robin announces once they’re definitely gone, “that was the best scene I have ever witnessed in my entire life. Everard will  _ never ever  _ hear the end of this-“

Anthony shoots him a look. “You’re going to tell him that you were  _ spying?”  _ (He attempts to add extreme scorn and disapproval onto “spying” but fails miserably, seeming to realize that he had also committed the deed.)

Robin scoffs, gets to his feet and pulls a spider out of his hair. “Of course. He’s probably going to pretend his stupid date was great when we get back, I can’t wait to tell him we witnessed that absoloute failure.”

And then he swaggers off towards the horses.

“Do you think Everard will get us in trouble if he finds out we were spying on him?” Anthony asks Marcel worriedly, watching Robin ungracefully clamber onto his horse. 

“Without a doubt,” Marcel says dryly, and decides that it would be better to not care.

  
  
  
  


Robin is completely and utterly right about Everard’s constant yakking about his “successful”, “romantic”, “blissful”, “lovely”, occasionally he would add “erotic” (Marcel wanted to throw himself off the highest tower) “simply wonderful” date with Merlin.

The second they get back, Everard sits them down in the training arena and begins to explain to them, at length, the stunningly poetic events that had occurred on the date. He begins with the ride over to the clearing, which Robin thinks is hilarious.

“The dappled sunlight made his eyes look like emeralds,” Everard is saying, like he wasn’t sitting in a pile of sawdust with a wooden sword in his lap. “He told me that I looked positively angelic, and kissed my hand, I was flattered of course but not shocked because how could he possibly resist?” He laughs in a horrible, high pitched manner. Robin mimes projectile vomiting. Everard pretends not to notice.

“Merlin’s eyes are blue, aren’t they?” Anthony interrupts. “Emeralds are green.”

Everard bristles. “Us princes know there are many shades of emeralds. There are blues, and-“

“That’s stupid,” Marcel says. “That’s sapphires.”

“Continue beguiling us with your fairytale, Everard,” Robin adds sweetly, for Everard looked like he was close to impaling the other two boys with his training sword, “it’s very entertaining. Go on.”

“And then we got to the clearing, and it was so sunny and the flowers were simply popping in bloom! We set out the picnic, and I asked Merly-”

Robin blanches. “ _ Merly?” _

“He asked me to call him that,” Everard says snobbishly. “Only his closest friends are allowed. Not even the King-”

“You’re disgusting, and I hate you, I hope you get kidnapped, please carry on,” Robin says.

“And so I asked Merly about his working for Arthur, you know- and he said that he’s been working for him for eight years, but they’ve never gotten  _ that  _ close. He said that he could never imagine having a close relationship with Arthur; it would be so odd seeing as he’s his servant!”

“Did he also say that he’s really proud of Arthur, that Arthur’s a really great King and that he’d never swap him out for anyone ever?” Robin asks innocently. “Because, dear Everard, that would be  _ so  _ tragical.”

Everard had frozen and was staring at Robin, haunted.

“Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking,  _ how did he know,  _ but the truth is, I merely guessed, because Merlin’s totally whipped for the King and you’re a loser,” Robin added. He stood up, swayed a little, and pointed down at the Prince. “Best wishes for you and Merlin’s relationship from me.”

“It’s destined to crash and burn,” Marcel told Everard, who looked worse than if Robin had punched him.

  
  
  


The news about the Knight Everard going on a date with the King’s manservant spread like wildfire around Camelot, and three days later, Everard had been sent to the stocks by Arthur on multiple occasions for things like “breathing loudly” and “having a wonky swordbelt”. Robin couldn’t stop laughing at him, but the others began to think it was rather sad when Everard stumbles into the knight’s dorm one night, covered in rotten food and reeking of heartbreak. 

“What was it this time?” Anthony asks him, who had been the first to crack and apologize at length for the “horrid, dishonest spying” and “Robin being a spiteful cow”. He hands Everard a cloth.

“I took the route by Merlin and Gaius’s chambers on the way to supper,” Everard says limply, and looks so pathetic that Marcel feels a horrendous wave of pity wash over him. “The King thought I was stopping by to see him, but that corridor is only shorter than the others…”

“Your luck,” Robin snorts, “is impeccable.”

“Robin, stop,” says Marcel. “I think we should tell Everard about the rules.”

Robin looks at him incredulously. “You’re seriously joking.”

Marcel shakes his head. “Look at him,” he says quietly, gesturing at Everard, who’s staring into the crackling fire with a broken, blank expression. 

“It’s what he deserves,” Robin mutters. “But if you really want to, because you’re so nice, then go on. I admit that it’s worse to see that prat all mopey. It makes me want to feel bad for him.”

Anthony beams. “Aww, Robin has feelings! That’s so adorable.”

Robin hits him, and orders Marcel to go and fetch the parchment. Marcel does without complaint, because Anthony is wincing and holding his arm, and Marcel doesn’t fancy Robin’s slaps. 

  
  


Everard is furious.

“You mean to tell me that you  _ knew  _ I would be bullied by the King if I tried to go out with Merlin and you let it happen?” he yells at Marcel, looking up from the list. “You’re heartless! Never speak to me again.”

“In our defence, it was really funny,” Robin says. 

“You look hot with carrot in your hair,” Marcel informs him. 

“I always look hot, you piece of rotted fish,” Everard snarls, and throws the rules on the floor. “I must go and beg Arthur’s forgiveness immediately. Do you know that it is absolutely unspeakable to fancy someone a monarch is particularly fond of? It is such an insult, I’m surprised I haven’t been banished from my job as a knight.”

“Don’t give up hope just yet,” Robin says. “You go talk to the King, and we’ll stay here and pray that he sends you away forever.”

Everard glowers at him, peels a strip of green potato off his cheek, and hurries out of the room, towards the King’s chambers.

  
  
  
  
  


“I can’t believe you went to the King’s chambers at eleven at night and told him you were “sorry that I went out with Merlin because I have come across a reliable source that states that you are ‘extremely in love’ with him and I am aware that it was wrong of me to think of Merlin that way when you already do because that is the height of insulting”,” Marcel says as they’re blowing out their candles for bed.

“Never speak of it again,” says Everard, shivering. “He told me that if I ever mentioned his love for Merlin to a living soul he would kill me when I slept.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prince everard aka sexy albino twink
> 
> im sorry for this fic it's probably the worst thing ive ever written but anyways stay safe, take care, fuck corona, wash ur hands!!!!!! i lub u!!!!!!


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